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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22831297">Quid pro Quo</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightymads/pseuds/mightymads'>mightymads</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Case Fic, Gen or Pre-Slash, Humour, M/M, Sort Of, WARNING: a brief attempted non-con by OMC</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 04:35:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,655</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22831297</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightymads/pseuds/mightymads</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson has to pretend to be a prostitute, but that’s for a case and his dignity won’t suffer. (Well, at least Holmes said so).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>78</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Victorian Holmes Prompt Box</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Quid pro Quo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">



        <li>In response to a prompt by
            Anonymous in the <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Victorian221bPromptBox">Victorian221bPromptBox</a>
          collection.
        </li>
    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <strong>Prompt:</strong>
</p><p>Ritchie!verse: Watson gambles their rent away for the very first time and he needs to tell Holmes about it. Holmes is surprisingly forgiving...</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Several times in my life I have done utterly reckless things with so little motive that I have found it difficult to explain them to myself afterwards. One day, during the first year of my cohabitation with Holmes, I was hobbling back to Baker Street, hardly noticing anything around. The only thought beating in my brain like a hammer was that I had gambled away all my money. Everything. I could not conceive why that had happened. Usually I possessed enough common sense to stop if luck wasn’t on my side. But not on that occasion. It was as if something had come over me. I must have been completely out of my mind.</p><p>The whole business was complicated by the fact that paying rent was almost due, and I wouldn’t receive my pension until the end of the next month. I couldn’t borrow a penny from Holmes either since Holmes had a particularly lean period and we had agreed that I would lend him his half of rent that month. What were we to do now? We would get evicted because of my folly, and I had to find courage and words to tell Holmes about it.</p><p>When I returned to our flat, a terrible malodorous smell attacked my nostrils the moment I entered the sitting-room. Poor Gladstone darted past me and through the opened door down the stairs, apparently to seek refuge in Mrs. Hudson’s parlour. The state of the room was appalling: heaps of papers strewn everywhere, vials with reagents occupying every surface—even my desk—and acrid smoke ceiling-high. </p><p>With a groan under my breath, I went to the window and opened it.</p><p>“Thank you, Watson,” Holmes said, turning from his bench of chemicals. “I was too busy to do it, and the atmosphere has become somewhat stale.”</p><p>“You are wearing my jacket,” I said, taken aback, as the smoke dissipated a little and I could have a proper look at him.</p><p>“Ah, yes. Mine was ruined due to an unfortunate accident, and the other one I possess is being cleaned at the moment.”</p><p>“You could have asked my permission first.”</p><p>“I thought you wouldn’t mind.” Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “Besides, you were out gambling, so there was no opportunity.”</p><p>“How on earth did you know I was gambling?” I stammered.</p><p>“You always have that dazed expression when you lose.” Holmes waved his hand nonchalantly. “And judging by the lack of nagging about the mess in the room, you’ve lost a considerable sum.”</p><p>As if struck by lightning, I stood gaping like a fish.</p><p>“Good Heavens,” Holmes exclaimed, his eyes widening. “You’ve lost all you had.”</p><p>Still unable to utter a sound, I nodded.</p><p>“Well then,” Holmes murmured and dropped into a chair with a despondent air.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Holmes,” I said at last. “It was so idiotic of me. I’ve let us both down.”</p><p>“Self-castigation will hardly help, though,” Holmes replied, frowning. “We need a plan.”</p><p>For a few minutes he was contemplating something, and after that his furrowed brow cleared.</p><p>“Firstly, from now on your cheque-book shall be in my keeping. And secondly, you’ll assist me on a case.”</p><p>“Of course,” I cried. “If you need my assistance why didn’t you tell me before?”</p><p>“Because I turned the case down initially. It’s trivial. A careless lord is being blackmailed. He promises a generous sum in return for the compromising letters.”</p><p>“What’s the point in coming to you? He could pay the blackmailer.”</p><p>“The fee is half the price the blackmailer demands. It’s more than enough to cover our rent and provide for a living without a care in the world for a couple of months.”</p><p>I begged Holmes to explain to me the particulars. When he did, I had a strong urge to curse in the foulest language.</p><p>“I am to do <em> what</em>?” I hissed.</p><p>“You will just walk and talk with him,” Holmes replied impassively. “I’ll meet you both at the right time. That will incriminate him, and he’ll have to give the letters back.”</p><p>And so, half an hour later, I was strolling along the alley which joined Trafalgar Square with Leicester Square, passing by the military barracks. I was in my army uniform, all dressed up, as dashing as possible. I was pretending to be one of those fellows who didn’t mind making an extra bob by selling their bodies to rich gentlemen with certain inclinations.</p><p>After an English public school, a university, and the army to boot any man was bound to be at the very least aware of homosexual liasons. I myself hadn’t been a stranger to occasional flings in the past, but the idea of doing it for money or some other benefit had always been revolting to me. If we failed to retrieve the letters, I’d rather do the dirtiest and lowest jobs instead of that relatively easy way of earning.</p><p>In the distance there were a few other soldiers loitering around and striking up conversations with passers-by. A young corporal, a fresh-faced lad, was having a lively chat with a trim, fashionable civilian about thirty. The man was clean-shaven; he had curled fair hair, languid brown eyes, an upturned fleshy nose, and a sensual mouth. His smouldering gaze seemed to be undressing his companion as they spoke. The dandy perfectly matched the description Holmes had given me. </p><p>Archie Swinsby was a man-about-town with a flat in Albany who acted as an intermediary between wealthy clients and soldiers as well as telegraph boys. Instructing his protégés to initiate risqué correspondence and knowing where clandestine trysts took place provided Swinsby with numerous options for blackmailing. Before recruiting a new employee, Swinsby tasted the goods personally. I was to lure him into a male brothel nearby.</p><p>Approaching the pair, I slowed my pace and shamelessly stared at Swinsby from across the street. That prompted him to turn his head in my direction. His eyebrow arched, he trailed an appraising look along my body. I winked and smiled, cringing internally. It worked like a charm, though: he abandoned the young corporal at once and walked up to me.</p><p>“Good evening, captain,” he said in a deep husky voice. “I haven’t seen you here before.”</p><p>“I’ve just come to England,” I replied, accosted by the saccharine rosewood smell of his perfume. “Back from Afghanistan recently. My tastes are rather extravagant, and I’ve lived a bit beyond my means upon returning. Now I’m open to new opportunities if you know what I mean.”</p><p>“I do indeed,” Swinsby purred. “Let’s continue our acquaintance somewhere else.” </p><p>“There’s a place I’ve heard about from a friend,” I said in hushed tones, with a slight nod towards the side street which led to the brothel. “Getting into the trade there would be more comfortable for me. It’s the first time I try doing it.”</p><p>Swinsby’s face broke into a predatory grin.</p><p>“Very well. Shall we?” he gestured, letting me lead the way.</p><p>The side street was squalid and quite deserted. It often amazed me how one could find himself in the underworld just having turned round the corner of some grand London thoroughfare. I could feel Swinsby ogling my posterior as we went, and that alone made me yearn for a thorough bathing once this charade was over. The current situation was my own fault: had I not been so irresponsible, Holmes wouldn’t have taken the case and I wouldn’t have been constrained to endure the company of this detestable personage. Thankfully, the brothel was only a few yards away, and then Holmes would emerge and do whatever was necessary for his plan to succeed—</p><p>Suddenly I was grabbed from behind and forcefully dragged into a narrow dead-end between the houses.</p><p>“You’re irresistible, gorgeous. I can’t wait,” Swinsby panted, slamming me back against the grimy brick wall. “Double pay for the trouble.”</p><p>For a split second I was too startled to move. The next instant, just as I was about to kick him in the bollocks and push him away, there was a blinding flash and the sound of a camera clicking.</p><p>“Hulloa, Swinsby old chap,” Holmes crowed.</p><p>He was dressed as a scruffy street photographer. Actually, his attire hadn’t changed much: his worn dusty trousers mismatching with my tweed jacket and his crumpled shirt were now complemented with a gaudy cravat and tinted glasses.</p><p>I shoved Swinsby off with a great relief.</p><p>“Who the deuce are you?” Swinsby snarled, wild-eyed.</p><p>“Our names won’t tell you anything,” Holmes said. “But you have something we’re after. I know where it is, and you’ll come with us at once. If you’re considering running away, remember, I have a lovely picture of you.”</p><p>In twenty minutes, clerks of the City and Suburban Bank were squinting suspiciously at Holmes and me while Swinsby was getting the contents of his vault. My uniform was so filthy in the back that brushing had been useless—it had to be washed. Mrs. Hudson would not be amused. Taking into account the disastrous state of our sitting-room, I decided not to risk her wrath and do it myself.</p><p>At last Swinsby gave us a bundle of letters. Holmes checked the contents, counted every piece of paper, and nodded.</p><p>“The plate,” Swinsby said through his teeth, extending his hand.</p><p>Holmes opened the camera and took out the glass plate. But as he was passing it, he let it slip between his fingers. It smashed to smithereens against the marble floor.</p><p>Swinsby huffed and stalked off.</p><p>“God, no more gambling, ever,” I muttered as Holmes and I were rattling in a cab to Baker Street. “I shall be damned if I’m in your debt again.”</p><p>“Glad to hear it,” Holmes replied, his eyes glinting mischievously. “And cheer up, my dear boy. Did you really think I would allow anything,” he pressed my hand, “<em>anything at all </em>to happen to you?”</p><p>I just smiled at him warmly, knowing that Holmes was right.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*The first sentence belongs to ACD. It’s from his autobiography.</p><p>**Holmes keeping Watson’s cheque-book is canon (DANC).</p><p>***Blame my recent reading of <i>Sodom on the Thames</i> by Morris B. Caplan and <i>London and the Culture of Homosexuality, 1885-1914</i> by Matt Cook for the direction this fic took.</p><p>Check out the Victorian Holmes Prompt Box! Leave prompts if you have any or pick some to fill!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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